


Dragon Slayer

by DarkShadeless



Series: Tales of a Wandering Knight [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Dragons, Gen, I have had it stuck in my head for five hours now send help, IT IS ONE LINE, and what comes with them, self-composed songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Many tales are told of the adventures Raan braved on his way to his ultimate challenge.He found many titles, though he did not go out of his way to seek them. Wolf-whisperer, elf-friend… dragon slayer.
Series: Tales of a Wandering Knight [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096412
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Dragon Slayer

**Author's Note:**

> Raan's hero's journey continues. And so does my streak in mood music.

_Many tales are told of the adventures Raan braved on his way to his ultimate challenge._

_Far, the servants of the Nameless One were known to stray in those days and far our young knight rode to meet them. No distance was too great to keep him from his calling._

_Like the heroes of old, if a threat arose it would not be long before word might find him and he in turn his way to where he was needed._

* * *

The city’s still smoking.

Watch-bells call out over the din of grieving, frightened people, struggling to save what can be saved. They’re tired, worked too hard for too long, Raan can tell. With a heavy heart he draws his hood farther into his face.

No one pays him any mind and why would they? He is nothing but another wanderer in a shabby cloak, sturdy but scuffed. It serves him well.

He’s not a shining knight, riding into town already hailed a hero but he doesn’t want to be. That’s not why he does what he has set out to do. He needs no acclaim. The people are better served trying to patch their lives, as they can.

There is always the chance that he will fail. Best for his arrival go unremarked upon.

The trek through the city is drudgery. At every corner, newly made homeless are begging for a day’s meal. Raan’s heart aches for all of them.

It’s easy to pick out the orphans that have been out here longer, the luckless children that have grown into quick, sharp-eyed things with even quicker fingers. Those are wiser than the rest. They take one glance at him and shrink back into shadow. They know a knight when they see one, however well-worn his garb.

No one questions him.

The gates to the innermost district are barred. Here, guards still patrol and their discipline is harsher than ever. Raan ducks into the crowd, as shrewd as any of the street-raised orphans that watches him with wary eyes, and he listens. Truth has a way of coming to those who do.

The beast, it came upon dawn, four days hence, and left such destruction the clocktower burned til yesterday, a sooth-streaked washerwoman mutters to the empty air where she sits in a forgotten corner. Large, so large. Wings fit to blot out the sky. She hasn’t found her husband still. Markus, he was going to the well, to help…

Raan presses a piece of his hardtack into her hand and moves on. She doesn’t seem to see him.

Four days, yes, and the guard did nothing! What good are they! They couldn’t save them in their time of need and now, now they are barring them from the stores! The dragon, it burnt the fields on its way in. Food is growing shorter. What is yet left out there, who would dare go claim it? The man garnering himself attention from his fellows with that talk is tellingly rotund. Raan dares to doubt he’ll starve as quickly as all that but he turns his eyes to those who garner less attention, huddling where they may, and he wonders.

Yes, truth. A spot of it, here and there... and a servant’s entrance, in the back-alleys, past the main gates. There usually is. Can’t have the guests run into stable boys, can they now.

A little bit of patience and the cheap lock gives under his picks easily enough. He lets the door swing open, careful to keep it quiet and steals through, a shade among shadows. Swings it closed just as quietly but before it is quite there…

Raan steals a glance through the crack, at young, clever, hungry eyes and presses a finger to his lips.

If they are smart, they’ll keep it to themselves. If they are smart they won’t take much, never enough to be noticed. A little can go a long way.

In the castle, towering high above the town, the halls are deserted. What servants haven’t been sent home or gone out in search for relatives are likely laying low. Instinct is a powerful thing. When terror walks the land in thundering steps, the meek cower. Raan doesn’t begrudge them that fragile safety. That’s what he is for, that’s his life’s work, to be brave, brave and strong and true, so that others will be safe. So they can live their lives in peace.

With nimbleness gifted by experience he ducks into an alcove, just in time for the guard rotation to pass him by. Their tread is so heavy he can tell when they turn the corner without risking exposure.

They don’t spot him until he reaches the receiving hall.

The castle is old. It’s the oldest part of the entire city, the heart it grew from, and the people who built it had their minds turned farther to war than the current rulers do. The receiving hall is a large, empty stretch of space. One entrance, one exit. Just one door on either side. A death trap if Raan has ever seen one. Who could bridge that gap in time to kill the guards before they can raise the alarm?

It takes a peculiar sort of person to overcome such an obstacle.

A person such as he.

He banishes the thought from his mind. That’s not what he is here for.

Instead of rushing them on silent feet, quicker than the mortal eye can see, he steps out of the shadow of the pillar he has borrowed as a hiding place. In their incredulity it takes the pair of guards at the far end of the corridor a precious handful of heartbeats before the first shout echoes through the halls.

To their credit, their brethren are quick to respond.

Alone in the middle of this wide open space that leaves no one a chance to hide who cannot melt through stone, Raan breathes deep and does not reach for his sword. Yes, instinct runs deep but he has conquered it in circumstances more fraught than this.

Slowly, he reaches for his hood and folds it back.

He has wound his hair into a practical braid but that does little to disguise the flaxen color, more bent toward gold than the more natural pale yellow of straw. One of the guards can’t quite contain a gasp. Raan gives them what time they need to look their fill.

The fairy-touched are easy to spot. It serves him as well as it is troublesome.

He knows what they see. Locks spun from gold, bound with thread, honey-brown eyes that glimmer as a gem might when the light hits them right. His cheap clothes and well-worn armor. Boots that are a touch too close to their last legs to still be comfortable. A murmur rises among the king's guard.

Raan is used to that, too. He parts his cloak with a quiet sigh.

Immediately all attention is drawn to the most valuable thing in he owns, if one can be said to own a sword that has existed before you were born and will, without a doubt, outlive you.

Finally, they falter. At his back, whispers rise.

“It’s him.”

“It can’t be.”

“No way.”

Oh, how he could do without the production but he has yet to manage to avoid it. The tale of how the invasion of Tython was repelled has spread far and wide. As much as it aids him at times Raan could do without the questionable fame.

He clears his throat. The faint sound kills all conversation in the cradle. “I’m here about the dragon.”

* * *

The king admits him right away. Fame does have its uses. It speeds things when they need to go quickly.

Dragons rarely come for no reason. Even more rarely they are satisfied by a single night of raiding.

The king must be aware as well. The man that greets Raan has the look of one braced for worse than the misfortune that has already come to call. He is resolved, too, that’s easy enough to read in the straight line of his shoulders, but he is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Unsurprising. If anyone should know the habits of dragons, it is one of Talach’s line.

The king musters him, takes his own journey from disbelief, to incredulity, to wary hope.

“Knight Raan,” he finally intones, as sternly as one would expect. “I hear you have come to slay our dragon.”

He did not say that but Sar is too often right. People hear what they want to hear. Well, the king isn’t _wrong_. Raan has come to see what he can do about the dragon. He is not quite confident that he can slay it, yet, but he shall find out in short order.

Dragons are fierce creatures and if this one is truly as large as the people of this town have painted it, it must be very old indeed. Age in dragons makes them crafty, not infirm. Raan knows to be wary. If he gets himself eaten by an oversized lizard, Sar will drag him back from the beyond just to kill him himself.

“I have come to investigate, yes.”

There’s something about the way the ruler of this fair city looks at him Raan does not quite like. It’s not until he harrumps and asks, too casual to be quite true, “And have you come alone? I hear you travel with a gifted smith these days. We could have use of one such as him.”

That gleam in his eye… it’s not just desperation. It is greed.

Sar had the right of it, staying behind. “I’m afraid he is otherwise engaged.”

“Ah. No matter.” The king waves off his question, as if it was but a passing fancy, but his heart betrays him to those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. Truth is a merciless mistress.

Perhaps Sar’s talents could do some good here but Raan has made him a bargain and he intends to keep it. No souls will find their way upon his anvil, no beauty will leave it too grand to be bought with less than blood, and in return, in return he will be free to travel the land under Raan’s protection. Humans and Destiny will bother him no more.

They weren’t quite sure their deal would make the distance but it has carried them well enough so far.

Carefully, Raan chooses his words. “Indeed. You should have no need of a smith, I’ll say.” For the first time since he entered, he allows his eyes to be drawn to the mantle above the throne. There hangs the proof of the legitimacy of this house’s rule, the greatest treasure of its line.

The sword of Talach, the Dragon Slayer.

It’s as beautiful as if it was freshly forged, oiled to perfection. Raan doesn’t doubt its sharp enough to split a hair. A thing of beauty and destruction.

Within its hilt sits a ruby the size of a hen’s egg, shaped like a drop of blood. Steel whispers in his ears. He keeps his face blank with difficulty. “You already have the weapon you need,” Raan makes a calculated pause. “The weapon I will need, if I am to face your dragon.”

Tension coils through the room, tight as a spring. The king’s hand tightens on the armrest of his throne. “A brazen claim.”

“I only speak truth.” And he does, _a_ truth at least. “That sword is destined to kill dragons and you well know it. What better task could it be put to than a dragon hunt?”

The guards that have remained, the only witnesses to this frank exchange, shift with unease. In their reaction Raan knows his answer before he receives it. None know a man better than those sworn to lay down their lives for him. None, save perhaps the orphans who live on his streets, where his mercy could elevate them from their plight.

You can know any man by how he treats fortune’s least favoured.

“And you’ll return it, I suppose.” Suspicion has crept into the king’s voice. It is an ugly thing, noble caution tainted by avarice.

Raan meets it head on as he would meet any beast, steady as a rock. “I will make no such promise.” Surprise snaps through the room, outrage in its wake. Firmly, Raan raises his voice to cut through them both. “I know well enough I might not live to see it done and I make no promises I cannot keep. Neither do I ask for gold or riches in reward for my deeds. I will swear my life to the task of freeing your people from what threatens them this day but the sword I would keep, if I live to see the morrow. My road is perilous and long and my work far from done. That blade does little good, hanging on a wall, don’t you think?”

* * *

They throw him out and Raan counts himself lucky that is all they do. Landing arse over teakettle in the gutter is the least his mouth has bought him in his travels.

The path of an upstanding hero is not all it’s made out to be.

He wipes the worst of the mud off his coat with grimy hands and sighs. It was worth the attempt. He’ll go face the dragon regardless, of course, but an edge would have been nice. So, too, a gift, for when he returns. If he returns.

Sar does love his creations so well and few others do as right by them as he.

Nothing for it. Raan may have all the skill of one but he is just as little a thief as his companion. That’s not to say he won’t aid this hard-hearted fellow of Talach’s blood in getting what’s his due, at least a little. A sword for the safety and protection of his people is a bargain cheaply made, no matter how wondrous the blade.

With that harsh though firmly in his mind, Raan very accidentally forgets to reclaim his lock-picks from where they have freed themselves of the confines of his pocket. He’s sure someone will find a use for them. Preferably upon that blasted servant entrance.

Sneaking out is just as easy as sneaking in, if not easier. The mud helps.

His worn boots carry him past the city proper and quite a ways further. They are reliable, though they may creak on every step.

Raan makes camp just around the bend of the first hill that steals that downtrodden place from his sight. A small camp, perfunctory and rather lonely now that he has grown used to company. Hopefully he will not die, once he finds the dragon. If he doesn’t Sar will not be nearly as grumpy as he would be if he did.

Gods, Raan misses his grouching already. It grows on you.

The dragon’s lair is a few days’ ride off into the wilderness. For how big they are dragons do well in hiding their dens but Raan has learned a trick or two in his time. He knows to read the signs, to follow trails that aren’t as substantial as a boot print on the ground. Animals, they always know and in their own way they give you what you need to find what has been hidden.

He hasn’t seen a bird in hours. It must be close.

Understandable enough that his blade is close at hand. When a twig breaks behind him, Raan has drawn steel before the sound has fully registered. The sword he once drew from a lake, gleaming as the day it was forged, fits itself to his palm as if it was made just for him. So does Jiminy.

Quite the undignified name for a dagger of legend, one could claim, but it takes harder hearts than Raan's to tell him so. He's still as beautiful as the first time he held him and sharp as a tack, besides, and while Jiminy may not have been forged to slay dragons, a destiny of murdering nigh immortal witch-kings is nothing to scoff at.

At a glancing touch he springs from his sheath hidden at Raan’s back eagerly, singing with something too sweet to be called bloodlust and full of glee.

How eager he is does give Raan a little pause. Just enough not to run the fool through that has snuck up on a knight about to try and slay themselves a dragon.

Faced with such threat, the young man backpedals as quickly as he is able, flailing wildly for balance, not that it helps. Before Raan’s disbelieving eyes the guard tumbles to the ground in a clatter of armor.

If there was any wildlife left within a league it has fled now. Did Raan mention that dragons hear rather well? Not that this one needs to with this kind of racket. If it hasn’t gone senile the element of surprise has just gone out the window.

But, oh, he isn’t the only one who came armed, is he?

The guard’s own blade tumbles to the ground between them, cutting the air with a hiss of complaint at its incompetent wielder. It’s a wonder he doesn’t lose any fingers. Shine unlike anything crafted by mortal hands, steel as white as silk crowned with a ruby as red as blood and oh. _Oh_.

Jiminy crows in recognition of his kin, a bell-like whistle shot through with guileless joy. ‘ _Hello! Hello, hello, hello!’_

Raan gets the distinct impression that if swords could blink, the heirloom of Talach’s line would do just that, where it is stuck in raw earth like a common trowel.

 _‘… hello, little brother. Fancy meeting you out here._ ’

She sounds older than Jiminy, much more refined. It figures. Talach slew his dragons a long time ago and when they first came for his home, he had no children to trade away. He did have a sister, though. They say she went to her fate with open eyes, to save her people, and perhaps she did. Perhaps she did both and will do so again.

Raan unglues his eyes from her shine with some difficulty. Her wielder is staring at him as if he is seeing a ghost. “You said you would leave,” he breathes, faint and in the span of a sentence it all comes crashing back.

Raan huffs, as irritated as he is tired. “I said I’d like the sword for payment and protection. I didn’t say I wouldn’t go.”

It would have been a foolish thing to say, too. A very foolish thing. People rarely like to pay for what they can have for free. A part of Raan wants to cringe at the thought, beaten into his head too many hungry nights and a very irritable smith, but it is true enough. He _doesn’t_ seek riches, or reward. He provides a service and gladly. He still needs to eat.

In the grand scheme of things, the offer he made was more than foolish, too. A dragon’s lair promises rewards all of its own. Even if Raan returns to the people what was taken from them, he could become very rich indeed by felling such a beast. But swear fealty for the deed and all reward might well go to the crown you are serving, however temporarily.

The sword would have been payment enough, though.

She didn’t sound very happy, in the hall. Dull, bored. Forgotten for what she really is, as so many of Sar’s creations are. She doesn’t sound much happier now but at least nothing about this adventure can be said to be boring. It’s something, hopefully.

The young guard who has absconded with the founding relic of his royal house, to go on such a quest driven by more bravery than sense, gapes at Raan like a beached fish.

This is going to be a long day, isn’t it?

Gregor, so he introduces himself once he gets over the staring, categorically refuses to go back to town. Raan supposes he did steal from the crown but surely, surely he does not wish to face a dragon if he doesn’t have to.

Cradling his stolen sword more like a safety blanket than a weapon, the guard resolutely shakes his head. “I couldn’t possibly. I have a duty.”

Admirable. Annoying as hell but admirable.

He’s going to get them both killed.

“You’re not cut out for this. At the very least you’re not _trained_ for it. I am.” A harsh judgement for sure but Raan can all but feel the dragon’s breath on his neck already. The lair gapes before them like a maw, pitch black but for the fire-light in its very depth. This is no place for rookies.

Now if he could only convince the rookie of that.

The boy, he can’t be a day past sixteen, on the awkward cusp where you are never quite sure whether to call him a man or not, is white as milk with nerves but his resolve hasn’t faltered. “I’ll go. You don’t have to come with me.”

Oh, _does he_. Seriously.

In Raan’s experience, if the threat of a dragon isn’t enough to make you turn tail nothing is, until you meet the actual beast. So… this should be interesting.

He’s going to have to figure out a way to bribe Jiminiy into never mentioning any of this ever again, because if he does his maker will string Raan up by the ankles until his head explodes, as surely as death and taxes.

“Right.”

Sneaking into a dragon’s lair is always a hair raising endeavour. It does not become less so, with two enchanted blades having the time of their lives and determined to make the most of it.

Gregor’s grip on his weapon is a shaky thing that makes Raan want to cringe but she does not seem to care. No. She is _delighted_ by this entire disaster. He can tell by how she _won’t stop singing about it_.

Her ethereal voice rings out over their desperately quieted breaths like a siren’s song of battle to come, only sirens generally don’t sound quite so bloodthirsty. They keep that in reserve for the second date.

_‘Cut off its wings, break its back and stab it in the neck!’_

Gods and spirits all. Talach’s sister is something else.

Brighter and just as delighted, Jiminy adds his own fervour to the chorus. It’s not a tough song to learn. _‘Stab it in the neck!’_

_‘Yes, stab it in the neck! And if the wyrm raises its head, then we shall attack-’_

You… you get the picture. Raan needs a drink and he needs it yesterday.

As it turns out, he’s not the only one. He’s pressed to a wall, angling his sword to get an impression of what’s beyond the next corner, when three paces behind Gregor hunkers down and says, in a pressed whisper, “Astrid, can you _please stop_?”

Raan freezes.

He has travelled quite a ways with Sar now, since they met. Not in all that time has he met a human who could hear his creations without their maker helping them along.

But here he is, in the lair of a dragon, and a guard so green he is a walking grass stain is trying in vain to shut up his enchanted sword. “You can _hear_ her?”

Gregor’s mouth snaps shut mid argument. His eyes are so wide they rival dinner plates. “ _You_ can hear her?”

This would have been the start of a beautiful interrogation, had it not immediately become apparent that hiding behind a corner in a dragon lair is one of the very worst places to have an argument.

“ _There you are._ ” The incensed hiss that rends the silence that has fallen in absence of song could belong to a mountain. It rumbles through Raan’s body like an avalanche. “ _I knew I smelled something.”_

Shit.

Instinct is all that saves his life. Without thought Raan pushes away from the edge and throws himself at Gregor and not a moment too soon. A sound like rolling thunder and wasps roars past his ears. Green flame licks over the wall, so close the edges of his cloak threaten to come ablaze.

Instead, they curl, shrivel like dying leaves.

Grand. Just grand. Raan can deal with fire, even dragon fire, but this is rapidly starting to become an adventure above his paygrade.

Not that he is getting paid.

He employs the better part of valor and legs it down the hall, dragging Gregor in his wake, before they can both be burned to a crisp. Or whatever else will happen if the dragon’s breath touches upon them. ‘ _None of the townsfolk mentioned green flames’_ , Raan thinks feverishly and they _would have_. That’s the first kind of thing that turns up in stories.

“ _Come out, come out, wherever you are, you little **rat**.” _

No, not a chance. None in hell. Raan takes a corner at a run, chooses the direction blindly because _who has time_. Boy, that will come back to bite him, won’t it? The walls grow less rough hewn, smoother, as they have for a while, but now they are almost textured. Someone went to the trouble of chiselling the rock all the way to the cavernous ceiling and Raan would admire that, he would, _if he didn’t have a dragon on his arse_.

He’s about to take another turn, when Gregor throws himself in the other direction. “No! Left!”

What? Well, left is as good as right, as long as it doesn’t lead them straight into the dragon’s clutches. They are too loud. Their hurried steps echo, Gregor’s more than his. Armor doesn’t for stealth make either, not without practice.

Raan has it. His companion does not.

“ _You can’t escape me, thief!_ ”

And there is nothing a dragon hates more than a thief. They are in so much trouble. It’s one thing to take a beast like that by surprise, hard as it is. It’s another entirely to meet it in battle, aware and enraged.

Flame fills the path behind them to the brim. With a yelp, Gregor pushes their pace faster. Desperation has to be the only thing that makes that possible, even Raan can feel a stitch in his side like a knitting needle shoved into his lungs. It’s not enough. There is no way they can outrun the fire and there’s nowhere to hide.

In front of them the cave opens up, widens to a dome and _there_ they may have some luck, if they can reach the maze-like structure Raan catches a glimpse of. Towering, from floor to ceiling someone has installed rows and upon rows of criss-crossing… bookshelves?

The sight is so queer he almost forgets what he is running from. That he _needs to keep running_.

There are hundreds of them, thousands of books, some shelved so high Raan can barely make them out where they touch upon the ceiling. He has counted himself lucky to have seen a few libraries, in his travels. The Fairy Godmother had the most awe inspiring one, without a doubt.

Her bookshelves are wound into airy spires, to be perused by sprites and her own kin. Human kings and scholars boast more earthly collections, bound in leather and hide.

But this… this is a hoard worthy of a dragon, indeed.

It must be _priceless_.

Truly, Raan is lucky he did not manage to rid himself of Gregor after all. He’s not the one with his feet properly under him right now. The guard manhandles him around a shelf while he is still busy staring.

Behind them, the flames die. Of course. Who would risk destroying their own treasure?

But their respite leaves them with a different problem.

Scale scrapes on stone, massive steps set the shelves to trembling and finally Raan catches sight of the beast. It’s enormous. He has seen a dragon or two. Fought them as well, even won a time, if that pyrrhic endeavour can be called a victory, but compared to this creature they were babes. Wyrmlings, barely escaped their mother’s clutches.

The dragon towers even above the lofty construction of the shelves Raan and his companion have found themselves among. Its claws are larger than an ox and could rend the same in twain with ease. Andru keep them. This might well be the last deed he ever braves.

“ _I have you now,_ ” the beast rumbles. “ _You’re not getting away this time._ ”

Oh, they may yet. If they can find another way out, that is, under the dragon’s watchful eyes.

Raan’s thoughts race to find a way to manage that much. That is, as it turns out, the wrong direction to give his focus to. In his distraction, he does not pay his companion any mind. Gregor slides from his grip, quiet as a sigh, pale but resolved.

Afraid but unwilling, unable to turn back.

Before Raan can stop him, he has stepped out into the open, right into the dragon’s path. “I’m not trying to.”

 _What_? What is this fool-child doing!

The dragon’s gaze falls upon him with deadly accuracy. Raan’s breath dies in his chest.

Somehow, Gregor finds the strength to square his shoulders, finds the defiance to meet the wyrm’s golden stare squarely. “I’m here and I’m not running. All I ask is for you to hear me out.”

The dragon boggles. It buys his meal a few more heartbeats of life. “ _Hear you out? **You stole form me**! You **THIEF**! I’ll roast you to the bone!_”

Outrage, bright and chilling, bears down upon them from his maw and that, more than anything else is what snatches Raan’s attention. They haven’t taken anything. Dragons are avaricious creatures but if he can convince it of that-

And then Gregor, that fool, that foolish boy, draws a book from his vest.

It’s a small thing, thin as a finger and well worn. Nothing grand. In his hands it hardly looks a treasure but the dragon’s eyes find it immediately. Raan’s heart skips a beat. “I brought it back,” Gregor’s voice shakes, much as he tries to hide it, “I did. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Slowly, too slowly the picture comes together, stalled by disbelief. Surely not. Surely no one would be so brazen… but Raan knows better, doesn’t he? Someone always is. And then the dragon comes, on the trail of stolen treasure, and they need a dragon slayer.

The dragon’s growl grows lower. “ _Is that why you brought a dragon slayer’s sword, boy, to make amends? Do I look like a fool?_ ”

Gregor swallows heavily. But his resolve holds, even with a dragon bearing down, and that, that gives Raan, frozen by indecision, the final clues. The young guard takes a hold of his sword-belt with shaking hands and slips it from his back. Astrid clatters to the floor with a yell of denial.

A dragon slayer’s sword, bequeathed to a dragon slayer’s line. Given to the bravest of men, to be forever true, and it didn’t protest being taken, had it? No, it had been delighted, singing with the challenge… in the hands of its true wielder.

The blood of Talach.

The king’s heir, legitimate or otherwise, gives his blade one last, regretful look. “Sorry, Astrid. I have to do this.”

He has to do it, he has a duty, he said so himself. It seems not all of his line has forgotten they are to serve their people, even if their own foolishness endangered them in the first place.

Gregor looks up at the fate he has chosen, quaking but with a strength those who think themselves greater men will never have. His eyes are wet. “I only wanted to save my mother. She was so sick, no one- no one knew what to do. That’s all it was, I swear.”

The dragon hardly seems swayed. “ _And to save her you **stole** from me._”

He’ll die now. This is how this stupid, brave boy will die and Raan can’t watch that and stand idly by. He gathers his own courage, not that hard when someone else does it for you first, and steps out of the shadow of the shelf. “But he did bring back what he took.”

Behind him, Gregor takes a sharp breath. The dragon is harder to read but seems less surprised. Yes, Raan had a feeling his companion was trying to save him, too. The notion makes a soft smile tug at his lips, despite their situation. He is a knight. He isn’t someone to be saved.

“ _That’s not **enough**_ ,” the beast roars. It’s howl shakes the very ground. The young guard, young prince, reaches for Raan’s shoulder with a death grip and drags him one step back. He does not quite manage to shoulder his way past. Even surprise does not impede the knight that much.

“Please!” Gregor’s plea nearly drowns in the racket, “Do with me what you will,” on the floor, Astrid makes a sound like a dog dunked in ice water, “but leave my people be. I will pay any price. Let it be mine.”

The silence that falls upon his words is deafening. Raan barely dares to breathe. He can’t let him do this, can he? But isn’t it his decision, if he wants to save his own from the consequences of his deeds, no matter how grim his own fate?

A terrible choice.

He still hasn’t made it, when the dragon leans down, its breath fanning over them with the heat of the heart of a mountain. “ _It’s **not enough**_ ,” it says, again, and if Raan hadn’t spent months and miles walking at someone’s side who sounds just like this, when he can be enticed to speak of humans, he would not know the bitterness for what it is.

It could be spite, spite, venom and rage, and it is, it is but the well it springs from, that is a different beast, and in a flash, Raan realizes why.

It can’t be enough. Nothing could ever be enough. Nothing, not until the kingdom lies in ruin, until the blood of its people has run dry and its crown is scattered in broken pieces because, “They know you are here, now,” he breathes and knows it for truth.

For the first time, the dragon’s ancient gaze moves to him, instead of its prey. Its weight is a heavy thing indeed. Raan, however, finds his fear ebbing, replaced by something else. He should be afraid. This creature will kill them in a fit of wrath if they can’t slay it, it _will_ , but all he can find within his heart is… sorrow.

A dragon this large must be old, older than he can imagine, as old perhaps as the rock it has made its home from. Here, in the library, the walls are carved just as they were outside, over and over in intricate lines. It’s the work of centuries.

No one has seen a dragon on the lands of Talach’s line in over three hundred years. They were lost to legend, all of them, the great beasts he once slayed. This is a peaceful place now, or it was. _Was_ , for who, who carries but a spark of greed, could resist the promise of a dragon’s hoard? And who, in their right mind, would leave one to live upon their boarders?

Raan tries to find the resolve that drove him here, in the memory of the hollow faces of the people of the city they have left behind but all he can put his hands upon is regret. For what was lost, for all of them… and for what will be lost, as well.

Gregor’s fingers dig into the space between Raan’s shoulder-plates with the strength of terror. “What? What do you mean?”

Slowly, Raan bows his head. “Your mother was healed through the boon of dragon’s treasure, wasn’t she? And a dragon came to get it back. It didn’t take a week to get _me_ here, even if we die, even if it kills us, how long do you think it will take until your king sends the next knight?”

Saying it makes it all the more heavy, the burden now shared equally but no lighter for it. Gregor’s breath catches, as he, too, realizes the depth of misfortune he has brought about. The dragon must kill them, kill them all, or wait in its den to die. And die it will either way, so why not take as many with it as it can? Raan knows the shape of Destiny too well and he doubts one so old has missed how its tapestry is woven.

Then again… we make our own fate. He takes that piece of wisdom with both hands and balls his fists. It might well devour him for this but, “You need to leave. You can’t stay here.”

“ ** _I_** _need to leave?_ ” The dragon sounds almost more baffled than offended. Almost. “ _This is my home!_ ”

“And they’re going to destroy it.” Unheeding of the dragon’s ire, Raan meets his gaze head on. “This is the land of dragon slayers, ruled by a dragon slayer’s blood. Even if you manage to kill the boy, which I dare to doubt now that I think about it, he is of Talach’s line, the last heir to a blade that is destined to kill your kin. To kill _you_. Do you really think you will win this?”

No, it knows well how this story will go. The shade of resignation in its golden eyes speaks more than words could. So does its silence.

Raan sighs, deep and heartsick. “Don’t be a fool. Now is the time to take what is yours and save what you can.”

“ _You just want to spare them my vengeance, **knight**. Don’t think you are the first to try and fool me,_” is the rumbled answer he gets but he can tell how brittle it is, now that he knows to look for the edges of the cracks.

“And what of it?” Raan throws down between them like a challenge. “What if I wish to save those who have no business with this whole mess and will be dragged in regardless? You know I’m right. What do you want more? To make them pay or to live?”

Because the lesson Raan has learned from following Destiny’s path is this: There’s always a choice.

It might not be pretty, or easy, but there’s always a choice.

The dragon growls like a whole mountain range come crashing down. It breathes in, in, in and just when Raan has braced himself to try and duck a lance of dragon fire, it breathes out again, so heavily it almost takes him off his feet. “ _Damn you_. _May the seven hells take you and spit out nothing but bones._ ”

It takes a bit of fast talking but in the end Raan manages to convince the dragon that squashing them would be very, very bad karma in this situation and rather like throwing a middle finger salute at the sky during a thunderstorm. You… you don’t do that.

They shelve further discussion until later. Literally. It sticks them on top of a bookshelf, so they won’t run off and rat it out, and gets to packing. That’s… not the worst way this could have gone. Raan is still counting his limbs, just to make sure they’re all where they are supposed to be.

Gregor, meanwhile, is watching the dragon rummage around its hoard mournfully. There’s a pained edge to his longing. “That’s the collective wisdom of generations, you realize that right? All that knowledge…”

At least he is bemoaning the right thing, instead of gold and gems. Raan drags a hand through his hair and says, as stern as solemn, “It might have been yours, if you had asked instead of taking, you know.” Probably not but… maybe.

The prince hangs his head.

In his hands, Astrid scoffs. The sharp noise makes a smile play over Raan’s lips. There was never a need to bargain for her, was there? This one is rather content where she is. Still, “The stories were right, you know. I _am_ travelling with a smith. I feel like you might know him.”

Gregor frowns at him, confused. “But I don’t know any smiths?” he asks, just as his blade says, ‘ _… oh._ ’

Her wielder’s gaze falls to her but if she pays it any mind there is no sign. Swords aren’t very expressive, though, being what they are. ‘ _Jiminy isn’t yours, is he?’_

Little Jiminy, who is dozing in his sheath now that the excitement is over with for the time being, murmurs at the sound of his name. Raan’s smile deepens. “Nah. He wanted to go on an adventure, is all. I’ll bring him back when we’re done.”

He really should have figured out the secret sooner. No wonder his blade was so eager to face Gregor. Royal blood. Not quite an immortal god-king but still. One could say the dragon is less the type of adventure Jiminy was made for than Gregor is.

‘ _Or his father,’_ whispers in the back of Raan’s mind, where he locks thoughts he does not wish to think.

But there is always a choice. Instead of pulling it close and looking it over, he lets it slip away and says, “If you wanted, I could take you to him. I’m sure he would be happy to see you.”

Alarm flashes across Gregor’s face. He draws his blade closer, as if he has suddenly discovered a viper at his side. Not so comfortable, is it, to find yourself in the company of those who may become thieves to what you treasure.

He is lucky that Raan is no thief, indeed. He pays the young man no mind, while Astrid makes up hers.

She does that quick enough and it goes like Raan expected. ‘ _No, thank you. I’m quite content with my wielders. Granted, the last few were a bust,’_ Gregor fairly squeaks in dismay, ‘ _but this one is coming along well enough._ ’

And that is that.

Three days and three nights the dragon spends gathering its belongings while Raan and the young prince share what meagre provisions they have brought and camp out high above the ground with hardly a way down.

It could have left them there, truly. For some reason it doesn’t though. On the dawn of the fourth day it sets Gregor loose to return home and the boy hesitates not quite as long as he may have before Raan asked after his sword, before he waves an uneasy goodbye.

Raan does wonder a little at what stories he will tell but it hardly matters in the end. When he reaches the town, both he and the dragon will be long gone.

With those thoughts foremost in his mind, he watches Gregor’s back disappear into the forest. “You could come with me, if you wanted.”

At his side the dragon snorts. “ _Still after my treasure, are you?_ ”

“I never was.” The truth of that fits itself easily to Raan’s tongue. He rarely lies. You gain what you earn yourself and it’s uncomfortable besides. “It can grow lonely on the road.”

“ _Hm._ ” Sunlight dapples dark green scales with gold. It plays over them, and why the dragon does this now when it has held off this long is anyone’s guess. Before Raan’s eyes its massive form sheds sparks of light… and then it shrinks and shrinks until the company he is left with is naught but a man, in shape at least. He still towers above Raan in stature, his dark skin may draw attention in these parts, but if he hides his golden, golden eyes, who would know him for what he is?

Yes, dragons grow with age, in wisdom and in craftiness. And in magic.

The dragon throws one last look over his shoulder, at what must have been his home for many years, and shoulders his pack. “You’re a strange one.”

Sar takes one look at what is trailing behind him when he gets back to camp and curses. “ _Deukarion fucking wept_.”

“And filled the lakes of fire”, their new companion ends the saying, lost to time, at least in the memory of most who aren’t devil-kin. “That’s interesting company you keep, little knight.”

There’s a hint of amusement to the claim and it thaws some of the ice this last quest has left in Raan’s chest. “People keep telling me that.”

**Author's Note:**

> And Gregor went on to become a great hero and falls in love with his sword. Astrid is very happy being a sword, thank you, and he is very happy with her being happy and so they do exactly nothing about that and bicker happily ever after, as they do great deeds. The end.
> 
> Mood music for this story:
> 
> Story Intro - Song of Durin by Clamavi De Profundis  
> Entering the city – Seven Devils by Florence + the Machine  
> In the castle – Mortals by Warriyo  
> The Dragon's lair – All as One by Miracle of Sound  
> Waiting on the shelf, goodbye and back upon the road – Toss a Coin to Your Witcher by Joey Batey


End file.
